


Reconciliation

by livia_1291



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: APH France - Freeform, Angst, AusSwiss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, France is the best wingman, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Or maybe the worst wingman, REQUITED swissaus, Reconciliation, Rough past, and making out, aph austria - Freeform, aph switzerland - Freeform, courtesy of a disastrous past, edelweiss, everything is okay in the end, seriously can we agree on a name, swissaus - Freeform, swisstria, there is yelling, they get drunk in france’s bathroom post wwii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18793858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livia_1291/pseuds/livia_1291
Summary: They can’t pretend to hate each other forever.





	Reconciliation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wiildflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiildflowers/gifts).



Laughter and music floated from the upper balcony of France’s country home, filling the moonlit garden with a jubilant mix of sound and light. It seemed to Switzerland that everyone in the West was here, enjoying the lighthearted evening and indulging in all the things they had been denied in the past ten years. The war had been hard on them all. This was a time for healing, for celebrating the newfound peace in Western Europe. But of course, peace never lasted long for Basch.

    “Sebastian, it’s so good to see you! I thought you wouldn’t come!” The cry was accompanied by a pinch to his cold-flushed cheek, and the smaller nation slapped the offending hand away.

    “Francis. We’ve talked about appropriate greetings. I’m not five.”

    “Ah, I cannot help it, cher!” Francis cooed, not at all deterred by the way Basch had reacted to his affections. He had expected it, of course, Switzerland had always been such a _hedgehog_. “You are just so precious! Tell me, how are you holding up?”

“Fine, I guess. Sending aid, making sure that all of our refugees got home safely.” He plucked a glass of champagne from the silver tray of a passing waiter, downing it in two gulps and ignoring the faint buzzing in the back of his mind - he had already had several drinks. With his luck, he would be stuck in this conversation for the next two hours. _Might as well try to make it tolerable._

“You have been paying special attention to l'Autriche, I have noticed. Sending him more aid than any of the rest of us, not that I myself mind,” the Frenchman mused, a twinkle in his eyes. “Has anything between you... _changed_?” His voice dropped to a purr, and Basch balked. France leaned in, examining Switzerland’s face for any clues to his current relationship with his neighbor, but was met with only with the patina of painful memories.

    “I...excuse me for a minute,” Basch muttered, ducking under the taller man’s arm and hurrying up the stairs, ignoring the call of his name. He burst into the first empty bathroom he could find and locked the door, heaving open the window and taking in the cool night air in great gasps.

    _Stupid France_. How did he always know how to wind him up? Of _course_ nothing between them had changed. They still hardly even acknowledged each other. He sank down onto the cool tile floor, shrugging off his jacket and pressing his back against the wall, green eyes fluttering shut as he gathered his wits and tried to extinguish the caustic burning in his chest. Too bad he was on the second floor - he could have escaped through the open window undetected, otherwise.

    A light knock at the door stirred Basch from his thoughts, and he stiffened, fingers curling into his palms, nails biting crescents into the skin.

“Go away, Francis. You’ve done quite enough for one night,” he called, voice edged with irritation. The insult he had locked and loaded flaked off his tongue when the knocker responded in a lilting, familiar voice that definitely did _not_ belong to Francis.

“Francis? No, not Francis. It’s just me.”

Basch drew his knees to his chest, feeling his cheeks heat up. _Austria_. Full lips drew themselves into a thin, disapproving line, and he stared at the gold doorknob, clearing his throat.

“You can get lost, too,” he told him, and there was a moment’s hesitation on the other side of the door.

“Let me in or I’ll stand here all night. Neither of us wants that.”

Switzerland stared at the vase of hyacinths next to the sink, exhaling sharply through his mouth. Naturally, Roderich would choose block his only way out of this hell. _Fuck_ this night.   

“Asshole,” he hissed to himself, dragging himself to his feet and unlocking the door with a smooth _click_. Roderich was standing on the other side, slightly rumpled, and clutching a bottle of red wine.

“Did Francis send you after me?” Switzerland asked warily, letting him in and shutting the door again, drowning out the sounds of the party downstairs. He returned to his seat against the wall, where he gazed up to the brunet with cool expectancy.

“No,” Roderich responded lightly, setting the wine on the closed toilet and easing himself to the floor next to Basch. At this proximity, the blond could smell the alcohol on his breath,  and he wrinkled his nose in distaste, moving to the side to put some distance between them. “I followed you myself.”

    “You’re drunk,” Basch realized, jade eyes narrowing coldly.

    “Just a little,” Roderich shrugged with a sheepish smile. “‘S been a rough...decade.”

    There was a heavy sigh from the blond, who tipped his head back against the wall until the slender lines of his throat were exposed to the ceiling. “What do you want?”

    Roderich shrugged, picking at loose thread on the bathmat. “Is it too much to want a conversation?”

_Yes_ , Switzerland was tempted to say. _Yes, it is too much._ Instead,  he shook his head, but did not give him any verbal confirmation, in hopes that maybe his feigned apathy would discourage the Austrian.

    “Wine?” The other alpine nation offered after a moment, and Basch hesitated, before bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a large sip, grimacing at the dryness in his throat. They sat in silence, passing the bottle back and forth until it was empty, and they were both teetering on the edge of being certifiably shitfaced.

    “Y’know,” Roderich sighed, breaking their long period of almost-comfortable silence, “I’ve missed you lately. ‘S not the same without you around.” Slowly, the musician found Basch’s hand, taking it in his own and skimming his thumb lightly, thoughtfully over his knuckles.

    At the touch alone, Basch’s eyes shot open, and he sucked in his breath, sharp and quick. Instantly, he yanked his hand away, cradling it to his chest and staring at Austria as though his touch had burned him. _And they had been doing so well._

    “I think you better leave,” he whispered lowly, trying to shake the haze of alcohol from his mind.

    “Leave? I just got here,” Roderich responded silkily, voice suddenly void of the lax drunkenness it had held just moments before. Basch was on his feet in a second, staring down at him and hissing through gritted teeth. Roderich blinked blithely, seeming unbothered by Switzerland’s otherwise threatening movements.

    “You didn’t have a problem leaving a few centuries ago,” the Swiss man breathed, and to his surprise, he found that he was trembling (with rage or grief, he did not know.)

    “That was different--” Roderich began, and Basch slammed his hand on the sink, voice raising, echoing off the walls in the tiny room.

    “How was it any different? I needed you, and you up and left! I would have _died_ for you, Roderich, and you traded me for a life of parties and luxury that you _didn’t fucking deserve_!”

  
    Now Roderich was up, lilac eyes narrow and frigid, like mountain springs. “Didn’t deserve it, hm?” He whispered, voice surprisingly steady. “I worked for what I had. Maybe I didn’t do it your way, but that doesn’t make it wrong, and that doesn’t mean I didn’t deserve it.”

  
    “You didn’t care about anyone but your damn self,” Basch snapped, chest heaving as he paced the length of the bathroom, which suddenly felt far too cramped and hot. “You stepped on everyone to get to the top, you didn’t care what came of them. Of Hungary, of Spain, of me.” He stopped and faced the other man, lifting his chin to look him in the eyes. “Hungary’s stuck behind a fucking Iron Curtain, Spain’s recovering from a civil war, and me?”

    “You didn’t care either!” Austria retorted, not breaking eye contact with the blond hurricane in front of him. “You know good and well all of that money you’re rolling in doesn’t belong to you. How does it feel to be just as guilty as-”

    “Shut _up_!”

    Roderich froze. There were tears sparkling in brilliant verdigris eyes, and suddenly, he was overcome with guilt. Perhaps he had gone too far.

    “Switzerland, I-” he began, but Basch held up a hand.

    “I said shut up.” The blond’s voice was surprisingly steady, despite the tears trailing down his cheeks. Austria knew they were likely tears of frustration, not hurt - there was no _way_ he could hurt Basch. The Swiss man had always been strong, fierce, unbreakable. Nothing he said could get to him, he was sure of it.

    _He had always_ seemed _strong, fierce, unbreakable_ , a little voice corrected him, and the guilt crushing his heart became too much. What had he done? Slowly, as though he was comforting an injured animal, Roderich wiped his old friend’s tears away with the pad of his thumb, and Basch let him, holding completely still. The only indication that he was still alive was the tumultuous rise and fall of his chest.

    “...I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Roderich whispered, and the sound of his voice seemed to break the spell. Basch jerked away from his touch, trying to ignore the staccato stutter of his own heartbeat.

    “You didn’t,” he muttered stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest and perching on top of the closed toilet, eyes shut to avoid giving anything away. He had always been far too expressive for his own good. “‘M just drunk.”

Roderich knelt in front of him. Perhaps it was the wine coursing through his veins, or maybe it was the centuries of tension that finally seemed to be easing, but he felt bold.

“Give me another chance,” the Austrian pleaded, and Basch pressed a hand to his forehead, keeping his eyes firmly shut.

“I don’t want to,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Go away.”

“Basch-”

“Every time I let you into my life, you end up hurting me,” he breathed, and all of the venom was gone from his voice. Now he just sounded weary. Half-lidded green eyes were trained on the vase of hyacinths by the sink, unseeing and blank. “I’m sick of hurting. Spent three hundred years hurting. Wrote you letters every day. You made it clear that you weren’t interested. Please...please let me stop hurting.”

The sheer vulnerability in his voice made Roderich’s heart ache. So he _had_ hurt Basch. More deeply than he had even realized, it seemed. Of course the other man wasn’t unbreakable, what was he thinking? He was only human. They were both human, and they had made mistakes and hurt each other and loved far too deeply for their own good. Now they were paying the price.

“ _I’m so sorry._ ” Roderich whispered, and Basch gave a weak laugh, looking down at him and shaking his head dismissively.

“You think _sorry_ is going to cut it at this point?” He asked, and Roderich hesitated, then shook his head no.

“I...I don’t know what else to say,” he admitted.

Slowly, very hesitantly, Basch reached out and rested a calloused hand on Roderich’s cheek. The brunet met his eyes, stunned to stillness by the touch. Switzerland was warm and solid and _right in front of him_ , and Austria was sure that if he blinked, this tentative new thing would shatter into a million little pieces. Or maybe Basch would slap him (God knows he deserved it.)

Instead, the blond leaned down, and pressed his lips to Roderich’s in a soft, clumsy kiss. After that, there was no turning back.

The searing heat building between them made Basch feel as though he was going to combust. Every place Austria touched was set alight, leaving him sparking live-wire with want, and when he forced himself to pull back from the brunet, he found himself momentarily speechless. Words were tangled with music, and music was tangled with Nietzsche quotes in French. This was stage five dizziness, the art of being drunk in love. _Celui qui a une raison de vivre peut presque tout supporter._ Oh, this was going to be a _hell_ of a mess to talk through in the morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Deciding that he had had enough of this lull, Roderich reached out to cup his cheek, gazing at Switzerland through a fringe of dark chocolate hair. His lips were kiss-swollen and inviting, and it was nearly impossible for Basch to keep himself from forgetting himself and leaning in for more, save for the little voice nagging at him from the back of his mind. When Roderich leaned in, Basch pressed a finger to his lips, pressing his own together in denial.

“Why won’t you kiss me again?” The brunet asked softly, skimming the pad over his thumb over the sharp topography of Switzerland’s cheek. There was a very pregnant pause.

    “Roderich,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse from yelling, “how drunk are you?”

    There was a faint snort, and Austria dropped his hand, rolling hazy gemstone eyes. “Is that what you’re worried about? My consent? I’m not that drunk, Sebastian, and certainly not drunk enough to not know what I’m doing.”

    “I...I don’t know what you want from me,” Basch breathed, and for a moment, Roderich could have sworn he saw something akin to defeat flickering in those brilliant eyes.

    “I don’t know either,” The Austrian admitted, leaning back against the cool wall of the bathroom. _Boundaries_. Clearly they were not going to have the hot makeout session he had been hoping for. Not yet, at least. So instead of reaching for another hopeful kiss, Roderich held out his arms. After a moment’s pause, the blond nation inched forward and slumped into them, pressing his cheek against the rucked cloth of Roderich’s suit jacket and listening to his raucous heartbeat in his ear.

“Guess we’ll have to figure that out,” Switzerland mumbled, suddenly awash with exhaustion and the warm, cotton-headed feeling he got when he had too much to drink. Roderich only nodded, eyes closing as he ran his nimble fingers through Basch’s tangled golden hair. “Too tired to think about it right now. Solve it in the morning?”

    “Solve it in the morning,” the Austrian agreed, eyes fluttering closed as he leaned back. The hard marble of the bathroom floor was certainly not the most comfortable place to pass out, but he was too full of silent gratitude that Basch was actually willing to try to talk this out with him to protest. He wouldn’t push his luck tonight. This would do, he decided, tucking a towel behind his neck and draping his arms loosely around his already-dozing companion. Yes, this would do nicely.

For the first time in centuries, neither of them dreamt of the past.

    When Francis found them in the morning, a little island of calm in a sea of leftover chaos and broken wine bottles, he couldn’t help the secretive little smile on his lips as he drew the door shut again. He made no move to wake them. No, not when they were so tightly wrapped up in each other on his bathroom floor. When they woke, there would be explaining to do and wounds to dress, but for now, in the golden light of the provincial dawn, he would let them savor the fragile peace of new beginnings.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this in December, but life happened, and I lost my will to write for pleasure until recently. Better late than never!
> 
> Special thanks to Bianca for beta’ing! Your comments and kudos are appreciated!
> 
> xx.
> 
> Liv


End file.
